


Carry As Your Sin

by maedhbros



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Grief/Mourning, Implied Relationships, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Vignette
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-05
Updated: 2019-02-05
Packaged: 2019-10-22 17:33:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17667017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maedhbros/pseuds/maedhbros
Summary: Survivor's guilt, across the ages.





	Carry As Your Sin

A trickle of blood hisses as it evaporates in the the scalding dust. Sauron shoves both fists into his mouth, knuckles straining against teeth. He bites down hard, again, in a feeble attempt to silence the hysterical threat bubbling up in his throat.  _ They match. _

 

Melkor’s Lieutenant had always believed, with the arrogance of a demigod high on the wind, that the concept of a Home was lowly, reserved for base and foolish creatures. Much like hope, that sun-blushed glimmer, sweetening his blade as it crumbled into anguish on countless tiny faces.

 

Pain forces a smoldering bark from between his torn fingers; a wound of a sound, disguised from watchful eyes above by the groaning devastation surrounding him. Hopefully. 

 

Eons ago, the same joyless shrieks had echoed through the winding caverns beneath the ruins of Utumno. At the time, he’d been unable to stop until the Captain’s flail sent him crashing into unconsciousness. Gothmog never apologized for it, and Sauron never acknowledged the fact that he wasn’t left to die.

 

But that Balrog's fire was long drowned in the fountains of Gondolin, and the wrath of the Valar had obliterated the rest. Thuringwethil would have been useless and likely to join in herself. She had always been even more reckless and fearless than he, right until the moment an eagle tore her to pieces.

 

Centuries of bloodied fingertips, aching muscles, sleepless months, plans re-re-re-re-drawn a hundred thousand times until they were  _ truly perfect _ — indicated by a dip of the chin, that coveted smile softer than stone — lay obliterated on the plains of the Anfaulglith.

 

The source of this grief-driven mirth lies before him, a gaping crater that was once a throne room.  _ You match. _ His hands fall limp at his sides and he gives in, scarlet flying from his lips as he falls to his knees. The noise is a battle cry, a scream of pain, the sound of being scraped hollow from the inside out.

 

Some part of him had prepared to covet, then destroy in memory, the few pockets of warmth he’d found: the great hall ringing with victory cheers; sharp cackles as grinning fangs glinted in the moonlight; a frustrated, earth-shaking sigh. Flying on two feet as his gaze held steady with piercing, molten ice.

 

But such a loss, to mourn the building itself, of all things?

 

He’d braced himself ahead of time for all but the very worst outcome. In hindsight, he was not fully prepared. 

 

Sauron laughs, truly and fully, for the last time, the sound ricocheting off the rubble far beyond. Later, when he hears the full truth of the battle ( _ they cut off his  _ **_feet_ ** ) discordant trills will briefly turn to screams, whimpers, then to sobs, before he tapers into a thousand years of grim, determined silence. But for now, he laughs. 

 

Revenge is best served cold, after all. 

**Author's Note:**

> title credit/inspiration goes to Dylan Thomas, special shout out to my ex for dumping me and dislodging my writer's block, if you made it this far you're great you're wonderful because it's 100% un-proofread so thank you very much ily etc


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